


Layer of Slayers

by OffYourBird



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Reality, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 00:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12096849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OffYourBird/pseuds/OffYourBird
Summary: Spike's love for Slayers starts a little earlier.





	Layer of Slayers

**The Beginning**

It started as an obsession. That was it. And it was right and fine and properly evil. And bloody good entertainment, if nothing else. One Girl in All the Sodding World. Made him think the Powers That Be had completely lost the plot way back when, sending some young girl against all the beasties and bumps in the night. Still, wasn’t just  _some_  girl, apparently. She – of which there had been hundreds – apparently did in about one of his kind for almost every night she lived. Of course, there was a lot of his kind. But there was always a Girl, too. Always destined to die at some Big Bad’s hand – but then always to come back round the bend again, in a new bird’s body. Was a right twisted kind of immortality, he thought admiringly. He had to see it for himself.

The first time he saw her, it was perfection. Screaming and smoke and gobs of fear, so thick in the air that he thought he might be able to swim in it. She was tiny, like some dark-haired fairy. Looked like he could snap her in two with his pinkies. She divested him of  _that_  notion right quick. Bloody wicked blade of hers about took his second life before he could blink.

He was, he knew after the fact, almost too young to appreciate how lucky he’d been. How lucky for the explosion that distracted her. How lucky that she was too bloody dependent on that sword of hers. Would’ve made it that much sweeter, he reckoned, to know how close to death the dance had really been. Made the end even more of a moment to treasure. Of course, shagging Drusilla against a pole had been its own bit of alright, covered in a heady elixir of Slayer blood and his sire’s juices. Still got him hard, to think about it.

It was, really, the night he became himself. William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers. Spike. The night he became a Master vampire. Even a newly ensouled Angelus had acknowledged it. And how ambrosial _those_  reluctant words had been on top of reclaiming Dru and bagging a Slayer. Oh, yeah, that night was always worth a good wank.

The second Slayer was a disappointment. A month into her Calling and about as useless as an empty purse. He still killed her, but even her blood tasted weaker than the Chinese Slayer’s had, watery like poor milk. He didn’t even announce the kill. Was a bit ashamed of it, all told. She’d hardly been worthy of a fledge.

After her, he didn’t bother with the new ones. Or the weak ones. The ones who didn’t really matter. He let something lesser pick them off, and waited.

 

**The Middle**

 

It wasn’t until he met a fiery Italian Slayer after the second World War that he thought it could be more. She was a wildcat, that one, and too bloody interested in him for her own good. She had wanted to know. To learn what it was like to wrap herself around her mortal enemy and have him rob her of her senses and her duties and her bleedin’ will. He found himself impossibly, incredibly willing to oblige. Fucking  _her_ had been the only thing so far better than the idea of killing her. He still killed her, of course. But after. Slowly, tenderly, with all the honor a Slayer deserved.

It was a sodding revelation.

It wasn’t until he met Nikki that he was  _sure_  it was something more. At least, it was with her. She was the best he’d ever fought, all improvisation and cool ferocity. One of the oldest Slayers, certainly the oldest he’d met. It showed. She was strong. She was smart. She was just itching to die.

The first time he kissed her, it was pouring cats and dogs in some pisshole of a park. He’d pinned her for only a moment and been unable to resist smashing his lips to hers. She broke his arm for it – almost staked him, truth be told. Only… when he’d been able to slap the stake away, she’d gone on the offensive and kissed him back. He fucked her against a tree, not caring that his arm felt like it was going to fall off. Not knowing that her son was hiding under the park bench, watching.

That had been a shock. A Slayer with a kid. Figured he should up and leg it then. Was bad enough he’d gone completely off his bird and wanted this Slayer. Not just wanted dead. Not even mostly wanted dead. Just wanted her. But bloody hell, with a kid in the mix…

Dru left him during it, or he left her. He couldn’t really remember.

He was too busy.

“This is sick,” she said after the second time, when they were laying sharing a smoke in the dark, black skin pressed against white. At least they agreed on that much.

“It can’t work,” she said after the fourth time, when he sat entertaining her Niblet with his bumpies in the kitchen. “My Watcher will kill us both, if he finds out.” He didn’t bother to agree with her that time. They both knew well enough that it was true.

“I’m going to kill you,” she said after the seventh time.  _Or I’m going to kill you_ , he had replied easily. But not aloud. Never aloud. Because they both knew which one of them really wanted to die.

After a few months, he stopped counting the times and instead counted the nights she came back unblemished from her patrols. He was lucky if he made it past two before he had to start over again. Some big trouble was brewing. He could feel it under his skin. She knew it, she was fighting it, after all. But he knew the look in her eyes. She was done.

And he was bloody well not letting some miserable excuse for a Big Bad take his Slayer.

They finished their dance in the subway, fists and fangs and fury. When he snapped her neck, he saw the grateful curve of her lips, the relief in the corners of her eyes. He didn’t even take a sip. Repulsed him to think about it. He took her coat instead. It was the last time he counted the nights.

Word got around after that. How could it not? Caught a couple fledges calling him the “Layer of Slayers.” He ripped them from navel to nose and booted their dusting entrails through the bar. After that, he never heard that title again. In his presence, at least.

He watched her boy move in with the Watcher. Would climb onto the fire escape for a quick smoke when the old man was out, say a little bit, or nothing, to the boy. Most times, the Niblet’d just tug on the leather coat and cry.

Wasn’t right, after she was gone. Oh, bloody fucking hell, it was  _never_  right. It was as sodding wrong as something could get. But it was empty, after the fact. He said goodbye to the boy after a long chat one night, and sent him back in as the Watcher called his name.

And then he got the fuck out of New York.

 

**The End**

 

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t go looking for another one. Not after her. But he was always bugger all good at listening to his better sense, and even worse at following the rules. Even if they were his own.

He couldn’t help it. After two decades, he had to know. Know all the ones after weren’t just disappointments. Know if this one was worth him driving to the bloody Sunshine state (that should’ve been his first sign to get the hell out).

It didn’t take him much more than that night to figure it. She was it. She was the one. The dainty blonde cheerleader type with the bloody stupid name was  _it_. What did it say about him, that he only fell for birds with death wishes? Nothing good, he was sure.

He watched her dispatch the fledgling like she was born with a stake in her hand.

“Nice work, luv.”

She looked surprised, a bit disappointed. “What, no 'I’m going to kill you, grr argh' routine?”

He just smiled and turned away, sliding into the night.

Was a whole different world, this hellmouth. Made his skin tingle. Decided he would stick around for a while.

Disposed of that Annoying Child twit and made himself Master of Sunnyhell. Because if anyone was going to kill this Slayer, it was bloody well going to be him. He expected this one to live a long life.

He knew she noticed when people stopped dying (well, quite so much). Knew she was about bored to bloody tears when the nights got slower. He tested it out – the pace of undead making – until he found one that kept her in shape, kept her honed, but kept her mostly safe. He turned all sorts – the academics, the jocks, the family men – to give her some variety. Gave him some, too.

She didn’t know him – not really – not beyond the pitiful twaddle that was in her Watcher’s books. But that was alright.

Anyhow, the daft chit was in love with his lurking grandsire.  _Runs in the family, eh, Peaches?_ The great poof didn’t even love the girl. Oh, he was trying – doing the best he could without much of a heart and a great lot of cursed guilt. But it was more obsession than love, closer to Spike’s preoccupation with Xin Rong than anything. Lust for the light, that burning, uncompromising gaze. And the wanker was gifting her like a fourteen-year-old boy, all flowers and longing gazes. Nothing manly about it at all. Spike knew better than to participate in that rot. No, he was going to get her gifts behooving a Slayer. Gifts for a proud, strong woman.

He left an axe outside her window – some old heirloom from a couple Watchers he’d done in way back. Left a note, too, scrawled in what was left of his nancy boy Victorian script (because sod it all if his grandsire got any credit for what was rightfully his).  _What’s a few weapons between mortal enemies? S._

He knew she liked it when she starting taking it on patrol. Made him damn near burst with pride.

He left her a few stakes after that, solid redwood. Fucking polished and everything.  _All the better to stake with, my dear. S._

His crowning achievement, though, was a short, red leather jacket. Looked normal enough on the outset, but it was made from a particular breed of Pylean demon, and near impervious to an everyday blade or claw.  _Don’t let the nasties bite. S._

And she wore it like a bloody queen. Made him want to bend her over and shag her against a headstone the first time he saw her in it.

She’d pause sometimes, if he got too close. Sometimes he thought she was waiting for him. Once, he thought he heard her say, “Thanks for the coat.” But that was it. That was all he dared allow himself this time.

And so she was the last person he expected at the warehouse door that night. And telling him that his wanker of a grandsire had done a 180, no less. And asking for his help.

Well, that was new.

He didn’t even know why he was surprised when his sire, his once Dark Princess, showed up. Even when he’d actually given a fig, it had always been “Daddy” this or “Daddy” that. Now she had the audacity to tell him he was covered in sunshine, tasted like ashes. No bloody shite. He’d come to the sodding  _Sunshine_ state, to  _Sunnyhell_ , to a bleeding Slayer named _Summers_. He was either going to burn in this fucking ironic joke of a place or add this Slayer to his reluctant count. Ashes weren’t unexpected. He just wasn’t sure who they’d fall from.

It hardly surprised him when his sire turned to dust in front of his eyes, her mouth curved into a shocked “o.” Behind him, he could hear the Slayer and his grandsire duking it out, and turned to watch the show.

Figured the tosser’d end up doing the stupidest bloody thing possible and get his soul back right before the Slayer had to do him in. And the worst of it was, the poor chit had some falling out with her mum, and the woman had kicked her out of her own home. Was the lady mental? He had a very clear mind to give her a furious talking to.  _Your daughter saves the world on a nightly basis, you daft bint._

He kept the Slayer from running. Could tell she wanted to. He knew that look. It had been on his face for decades, only wiped away since… well, her.  _Buffy._

Knew a rundown factory wasn’t a place for the likes of her, though. So he got some posh lower-level apartment (posh being relative in this anthill of a town) and set her up good and proper. Poor bird was so done in, she didn’t even want to tell her mates. He didn’t giving a bleeding fuck one way or the other, so long as it got that hunted look from her face.

He started bagging it. There had never been more god-awful swill, he was sure, but the look on her face when she saw the blood in the fridge made it all worth it. Love’s Bitch, no doubt about it.

It was a right domestic summer, all told. He didn’t mind her frilly girl things about (had to be a story with that stuffed pig) and she didn’t mind his too-loud punk rock at all hours. She did question his books, but only to ask him to read some. Had good taste, as it turned out (of course, he only read her the good stuff).

When her mum came to her senses a couple months in, he figured that was it. Time to pack it in. Instead she asked him to stay. To wait. He wasn’t sure what that meant, until she returned several hours later with the rest of her stuff, mum in tow. He could tell her mum wished she had a stake handy, but she settled for inviting him over for hot chocolate. Turned out his poncy knowledge of 20th century art was just the thing with this one.

It was all fine again.

And then his wanker of a grandsire came back (couldn’t the bastard ever do what he was supposed to, and bloody well stay dead?), and he thought it was over for good this time. Had a touch of hope when it seemed the poof came back a few cards short of a full deck, but it was squashed right quick. Seemed  _Angel_  (did the prat really think shortening his name wiped the history books clean?) was good at one thing: bolloxing it all up for his grandchild.

Spike was packing up his books when the Slayer came home. She just looked at him, all innocence and hurt. What gave her the bloody right?

“Are you leaving?”

“Isn’t that what it fucking looks like?”

She looked incredibly sad then, the bitch. “Why?”

He laughed at her, he couldn’t help it. Why? Wasn’t  _that_  rich. “Say hullo to the Great Poof for me, yeah? Or, on second thought, don’t.”

He’d made to leave then, shove the box in his DeSoto and be gone, but the insufferable chit had blocked the door. “I don’t love him anymore, you know.”

He wanted to say something uncalled for then.  _Oh, but you’ll still shag the ponce right quick, won’t you? Or would, if his soul wouldn’t pull a disappearing act._ He was sure there was still plenty she  _could_  do for him.  _Not like a blowie is heaven worthy_ , he thought bitterly.

In the end, he just shrugged and tried to walk past her. But then she did something unexpected. She kissed him.  _Kissed him_.

He dropped the box.

He told her about the other Slayers. Told her the whole bloody song and dance. Knew he’d better do it now, while he could still get out in one piece, before she ripped him to rejected shreds. Oh, who the hell was he kidding? He’d been at risk for a shred the moment he saw her. Still, he thought, better now than later. Fewer memories to need to drown out, that way.

She didn’t, though. Rip him, that was. Kissed him again, as a matter of fact. Thought he might burn up right there, and he didn't care a whit.

Took him to meet her mates, for a real introduction. Wore the red jacket, redwood stakes tucked in the back pocket of her jeans. They lost their sodding minds, but it wasn’t unexpected. He had saved the Watcher from his mad sire, though, so at least the old man didn’t try to kill him outright.

It was more than he really hoped for.

There was another Slayer now, eyeing him like a piece of meat. He smirked at her. “I know your type,” he told her, leaning real close. “Shagged your type. And drained your type bloody dry.”

Then his Slayer, his golden goddess, tugged him away.

“Let’s go home.”

And he smiled.


End file.
